Decompression
by dance4thedead
Summary: There's an empty, soundproof room, a "Decompression Room", in the London Dispatch Office that everyone is known to use. Except William, but he doesn't suffer from taxing emotions, does he? Trigger warnings for self-harm and suicide. Spoilers for the musical and chapter 105. (No Smut)


There were eight doors on the floor of the London dispatch department dedicated to the collection officers. The first seven were the frosted glass door to the main entrance, the break room door to the left and down the hall, the gender neutral restroom across from that, the maintenance closet, the one leading to the stairwell at the other end of the corridor, and the two offices belonging to the supervisors (William Spears had the office on the far right). The eighth door led to an empty, soundproofed office called "the Decompression Room."

All the other collection offices had cubicle work spaces in the center of the office. Eric Slingby had moved from his assigned spot to the desk across from Alan Humpries over a year ago and still had yet to file the appropriate paper work for a cubical reassignment. Ronald Knox had taken ownership of two cubicles. Grell Sutcliff had a seat by the window.

William had let slide those minor violations. He had found that there were certain liberties he could give his subordinates that would improve the efficiency of their work. The seating arrangement was one of them, as was insuring the break room was stocked with non-regulation goods (energy drinks, candy, and junk food for Ronald; soy milk, bagels, and pomegranate juice for Grell … William made monthly allocations in the department budget for those), and of course a lenient dress code.

The goal was to keep the collection officers as mentally stable as possible. This wasn't a point of compassion for William. An officer having an existential crisis meant more work for everyone else in the department, so it was best to evade mental breaks when possible.

Unfortunately, that wasn't always possible. That was why there was the department had a decompression room.

The decompression room wasn't often used, and when it was, it was usually not for it's intended purpose. There wasn't much inside except a coach, a shatter proof mirror, and a stack of tissue boxes. Ronald utilized the room when his office rendez-vous partners had protested to the idea of being bent over the sink in the bathroom. Eric and Al had too for a couple of quickies. But otherwise, the people in the office rarely saw anyone sneaking in or out of the room.

That changed one afternoon when Grell came back from her probation for her stint as Jack the Ripper. She was perfectly fine and composed one moment, then at the drop of a hat she was racing across the office to the decompression room, tears falling in her wake. She exited half an hour later, eye makeup freshly retouched, and went back to work.

In the following weeks the other officers began using the room. To cry. To scream in privacy. To swear at god and the universe. It was effective in relieving their stress, at least for a little while. The only person who was never seen using the room was William.

Eric began using the room more and more often as Alan's condition deteriorated. A couple of holes were punched through the drywall before the department decided to cover the walls with a soft, fibrous material.

Ronald started using the room for long periods of time, even off of work hours. He would sit on the couch silently, letting the minutes pass. Sometimes he would cry, other times he would just sit there. It was one of the few place he could escape to where he didn't have to put on the cheerful, worry-free face he had to wear most times. It was exhausting to fake being all right for so long. He didn't know why he always felt the need to do it.

When Eric and Alan died, the room became a memento-free memorial for them. When Ronald or Grell came across a reminder of the couple (old files with Eric's blocky handwriting or bent thumb tacks from Alan inserting them into the cork boards at a 90° angle) they'd rush off to the room to morn for them in their own personal way.

Nobody knew why William handled their deaths so well. The two prevailing theories were either that William placed little value on the lives of his subordinates, or that his apathy stemmed from his inability to experience emotions at all.

Ronald couldn't decide which of the two theories fit his boss better. They both fit William's personality so well. A mix of both?

It was on an off chance that Ronald was even at the dispatch department at this hour. Firstly, he'd forgotten his wallet at his desk, preventing himself from going through his normal nightly ritual of drinking himself into oblivion. Secondly—no wait, there was no "secondly." Without alcohol there was only pain in the form a giant emptiness his two coworkers had left behind.

Wallet now in hand, he jabbed a finger into the down button and waited for the elevator.

Fucking thing was taking forever. Teardrops came to him before the elevator did, and he turned, half running, half stumbling back down the hall towards the decompression room.

He ripped open the door, slamming it closed behind him. "Fuck you, Rick! Fuck you for dying, you selfish damn bastard."

He gave the back of the door a weak punch before melting to the floor, vision blurring behind the frames of his glasses. He didn't even notice that the lights in the room were already on, and that William was siting on the couch with the barrel of a revolver in his mouth.

The gun was wiped on the leg of William's trousers before it was hidden in the back of his waistband. "Mr. Knox," he said in a low voice.

Ronald looked up, his cheeks flushing from embarrassment. A hand went up to flip his bangs back, struggling and failing to fake his regular, casual demeanor. "Hey boss, didn't see you there."

"I could assume that much. Please see yourself out."

"Yeah, 'course." He forced himself to stand, although his knees threatened to waver.

"Now."

"Going, going. Can I grab a few …" He snorted the line of snot running down his face back into his nose.

"Take the box."

"Thanks, boss," he said, reaching over the side table for the tissues. He looked up for a moment, and for the first time since entering the room, he got a good look at William. Ronald almost had to do a double take.

Blood was splattered on the back and seat of the couch, dripping down to the carpet. More was smeared on the right temple of his fore head and on his hands, an angry red. Ronald couldn't tell by color, but the texture of his hair looked like there was dried blood caked to the strands.

Ronald staggered backward. "What the hell, William?!"

"Mr. Knox, you are not to take that tone with me."

"Why's there blood everywhere? What the fuck happened?"

"Mr. Knox, your language."

"Fuck my language! What the hell did you do? What the hell did you do, boss?! Tell me you didn't go and kill someone too. I can't … I just fucking can't … not after Grell and Eric pulling that shit." His whole body was shaking, yet William continued to sit there, infuriatingly calm.

"William, answer me, please."

"I have not killed anyone."

Ronald fell back against the wall at his back for support. "I wanna believe you. Believe me, I do. But boss … there's so much blood. What the hell happened?"

"I do not wish to discuss the matter with you."

"Well, I need to know. Okay? Otherwise I'm supposed to phone the dispatch emergency line. That's what you told me to do. That's what you told me to do if I came across a reaper I think has been out murdering people. "

"That won't be necessary."

"I … I … I think it is," Ronald stammered out.

"Very well then."

"What? No! I'm not gonna—"

"Then I'd appreciate it ever so much if you'd leave."

Ronald didn't move a muscle.

"Leave. I don't want to be bothered right now," William repeated.

Suddenly it made sense to Ronald. He gulped. "You don't have it in you to harm another person," he said with resolve. "Spears, I know that for a fact."

William didn't respond.

"Gimme your death scythe."

"That is against department policy."

"Tough. Give me your death scythe or I'll never leave."

William looked away from him.

"Look, that blood had to come from somewhere, didn't it? It came from you, right? I'm not gonna stand by and let you do something here you're gonna regret."

"What are you trying to say, Mr. Knox?"

"I'm just … it's that … well … I'm saying that … Fuck. I'm a bloody hypocrite, aren't I? You want to off yourself again, of all people I'm sure as hell not qualified to stop you."

"Ronald," William said after a pause, "I'm not trying to kill myself."

"Bullshit."

"I'm telling the truth."

"Whatever, boss."

William breathed out. "Ronald, this blood is not the result of using my death scythe on myself." He sighed again and retrieved the revolver, holding it loosely in his hand.

"What the—" Ronald said, his eyes widening.

"This is nothing to worry yourself over. Bullets are not lethal to us. You should know it take only minutes to recover from wounds caused by them."

"Yeah, I know that. So what … you shoot yourself for kicks?"

"Not 'for kicks'."

"And how many times have you done this? How long have you done this?"

"It only holds six rounds."

"That wasn't what I asked."

"I … I've lost count," William admitted, his voice cracking.

"Shit. This because of Rick and Al?"

"No, not exactly."

"Then what?"

"It's … it's everything." The last of his composure faded. He cried openly, and for the first time ever, Ronald realized how human William was.

"Everything?"

"Yes," the man croaked out.

"Why don't you ever show this side of you? The rest of us, we've been thinking you've got the emotional capacity of a brick."

"Good," he said between gasps. "That is what I intend."

"But it isn't healthy for you keep it bottled in."

A hand wiped the fresh tears from his eyes, smearing on more of his own blood."That would be why I'm in this room."

"Oh," Ronald said without meaning to. There simply wasn't a "right" thing to say to that.

"Ronald … here," William said, procuring his death scythe and handing it over. "This too," he said, passing him the gun. "Now please … please go."

The two weapons were heavy in his hands. "I could stay, if you want. It might help—"

"This I will get through on my own. I simply require at this moment time and privacy. Might I be given those two things?"

"Um, yeah. 'Course."

"Thank you, Ronald."

Ronald nodded, trying to hide his surprise. In all his years working at the dispatch, William had never thanked him before.

"And if you would please not let Sutcliff know of this. I will take care of cleaning the upholstery and carpet."

"I won't tell a soul, boss," Ronald said as he stepped out from the room. The door to the decompression room closed and almost immediately he sank down to the floor outside of it.

Life, even after death, was hard. Those who stuck around had to find there own way of getting through it. All reapers, barring not even William, were innately self destructive. It was something that every officer experienced, but was rarely brought up in conversation.

Curiosity came over Ronald and he pulled the base pin holding the cartridge out of the revolver. There were only two bullets left inside.

The world was cruel, and even those who seemed to be unaffected could be hurting just as much as the rest. Ronald stayed there, crying silently at those new revelations, until dawn broke through the window and he heard William from within turning the door knob to leave the room.

Ronald ported away before his presence was discovered.

During the workday everyone would put on a good show of pretending that everything was fine. And they'd keep on fake laughing and fake smiling until everything became genuinely fine again. That was how the universe worked. After a great disturbance, or the smallest of misfortunes, everything—the mind, the body—conspires toward a return to normalcy. Until that point, there were mechanisms they find refuge in: drugs, alcohol, pain … a shelter used to facilitate catharsis.


End file.
